


Sojourn

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Character Study, Great Hiatus, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson asks Holmes for further details about his travels during the hiatus.</p><p>
  <strong>Now updated with art by the incredibly talented garonne!</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sojourn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JWP #10: **Musical prompt: Chaconne for violin alone** (J. S. Bach, Partita for solo violin No. 2 in D minor, BWV 1004).  
>  **Warnings** : Very little plot. **And absolutely no beta.** This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I don't own them.  
>  **Now updated with art by the incredibly talented garonne!**

[Artwork by [garrone](http://garonne.livejournal.com/)]  
  
  
After Holmes' tantalizing gloss of his adventures in my office, it was only natural to think he might wish to recount them in more detail, once we had resolved the pressing business of Colonel Moran. Why else would he have mentioned exploring under the assumed name of Sigerson, or traveling to Tibet, or his researches into coal-tar derivatives? He knew I would ask questions about all of these things. It was what I had always done before, when we lived together in Baker Street. He would mention something in passing, and I would question him about it, which gave him the opportunity to expound upon the subject in detail.  
  
Yet it was not an easy matter for me to bring up the subject, despite my curiosity. The knowledge of his years-long deception, and the grief I had experienced, still rankled in the corners of my soul. Holmes had said he kept me ignorant from necessity, but however logical his actions might have been to him, they did not seem so to me. It seemed more akin to a lack of trust, or of confidence, in me and my abilities. That stung, and stung deeply, no matter how profound my gratitude in his safe return. However, I did my best to swallow down those feelings, and one evening shortly after my moving back to our old rooms, I asked him about his travels.  
  
To my consternation, he reacted with surprise, and a great deal of coldness. "Why do you ask?"  
  
Caught off-guard, I struggled to find an answer other than ‘because I thought you would want me to.’  “You mentioned that I might have read of your explorations as Sigerson in the newspapers, and that you had been to the Forbidden City. I would like to hear more.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
“Did I what? Read of you, as Sigerson? I remember seeing the name once or twice.” In truth I had only the faintest memories of it, for I had been very busy in 1892 with my practice and with married life.  
  
“And paid little attention to what you did read, clearly. The subject did not interest you at the time; I cannot fathom why you should want to know more now.”  
  
“I did not know it was you then!”  
  
Holmes shrugged and puffed on his pipe. “I fail to see why it should matter more to you simply because I was the one who made those journeys.”  
  
“Holmes!”  
  
“Furthermore,” he went on, undeterred by my protest, “while tales of explorations and long journeys, the pains and dangers that go along with them, might be entertaining when curled up in front of a cozy hearthside safe in your own home, they are quite otherwise when you live through them yourself, with no idea if you might survive to see the end of them.” His lip curled. “No, I fear l must decline to amuse you by reminiscing on those experiences, thank you all the same.”  
  
My hands clenched into fists as I rose from my chair. “I was not asking you out of hope for amusement,” I growled. “I was asking as a friend, because I care.” I strode to the sitting-room door, then paused, unable to leave without saying at least some of the other furious words that burned in my throat. “And not all pain and suffering occurs on journeys, you know. Some of us find them at our own hearthsides, in addition to the ones we bring home.”  
  
I left immediately afterwards, and so had no idea what Holmes’ reaction might have been. I regretted my words within seconds of speaking them, but I was still too angry to do anything but go up to my room and try to calm myself. Once there, I paced the small confines as temper gave way to a darker tangle of feelings.  
  
The sound of Holmes’ violin cut across my increasingly morose thoughts. From the moment of the first chord, he played with vigor, and with an amount of feeling that I had rarely heard from him before. Some parts were fast, others slow; some moments spoke of triumph, others of despair; but above and over all, the music spoke to me of solitude, of being alone and lonely with no prospects of home.

Words and emotions he would never say, but I could hear all the same within the music.  
  
I crept down the stairs as the piece continued, and was at the sitting-room door when the music finally stopped. I silently opened the door and stepped inside to see Holmes standing by the mantelpiece, facing away from the door, his violin and bow dangling from his hands.  
  
“Watson,” he said in a low voice, somehow aware of my approach despite not turning around. “I am sorry.”  
  
I walked to him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “So am I.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 10, 2013


End file.
